Better Than Silence
by TheCloudedSpyglass
Summary: When Jean Winchester is shot dead on a rotting bridge in Wisconsin, Sam is left utterly alone to track the powerful demon that killed her. In search of revenge, he finds that an enigmatic detective and a mysterious trailing whisper of a shadow dog his footsteps wherever he goes. And is he really quite as alone as he had thought? Fem!Dean, Slightly AU - suspend your disbelief.
1. One Stupid Bet

There is a unique and astonishing agony in losing a bet, especially when your own life is on the line.

It is not just the frustration and disappointment of defeat, but also the bone-crushing shame that comes of being proved wrong and stupid and conceited in front of everyone you ever knew. And also, in this instance, there was fear. If you would bet your life, you should first be sure of victory. Jean would never forget that lesson. Not that she would really have the time to.

It had been a drunken bet, made in the heat of self-righteous rage in a bar, riding a bubble of brash confidence, regretted in the morning with the hangover. But by then, too late. Bet made. Money laid down. Honour at stake.

So now here she stood, bravely, foolishly facing down the barrel of an old enemy's shotgun, in the thick soupy darkness of the bridge. It should have been obvious from the start that the woman had no interest in cold diamonds, but desired only hot revenge and blood of satisfaction. There was a pounding in Jean's ears like a steam train, and the mildewed boards of the old bridge moaned under her feet, protesting the spilling of blood into their old joints.

She could hear the henchman padding up the arch of the bridge behind her, blocking any retreat, and the distant river breathed freezing fog into the deep drop yawning below her.

Jean, you done fucked up, she thought to herself.

Lucy advanced with slow, feline tread, smiling. She carried the handgun elegantly, a unique accesory to a murderous ballgown.

"I'm sorry, Jean. I wish it didn't have to be this way, but a bet's a bet."

"Lucy, if I thought you cared, I'd be flattered." Jean found her voice reassuringly calm, despite the thunderous turmoil inside. She tried for a jocund smile, but failed.

"Of course I care about you! Jean, why must you hurt me so?" Lucy pouted mockingly. "I think I almost care enough to see to Sam as well, while I'm at it. Make a clean sweep of the Winchesters, once and for all."

"If you even think about my baby brother, " growled Jean.

"You'll what? What can you possibly do from the other side of your own gravestone?" she sneered.

"You'd be surprised."

"Surprise me" commanded Lucy, and pulled the trigger.


	2. One Farewell

Sam Winchester threw aside the mallet and put his hand to his mouth, sucking out a deep splinter. He stepped backwards and gazed hollowly at the rough cross hammered far into the wet earth. All around the rain fell through the vastly empty vault of the sky, hurling itself furiously at the earth, beating on his shoulders and back. He had finished crying hours ago, and was left now, here, with nothing else to do, nothing more to say. He wanted only to sleep, but found that he could not leave her alone just yet.

When his sister had been alive, the whole of America had been too small for her. She had been seen and known from the cold lakes of Minnesota to the flat baking wastes of Utah, roving the country on six bucks and an ocean of optimism, with a revolver and a charming smile, dreaming secretly of Paris and Dubai and London and Sydney. She hated sitting around inside, and when they had had to lie low in the past, hiding away for weeks at a time, she had always been drumming her fingers and jiggling her knees for the high open skies and beckoning roads of outside.

Now, three paces of dripping dirt was room enough, with closing earth above and below, not even space to stretch. He wondered if she was getting claustrophobic.

How many families, how many sons and friends and wives and lovers and vicars and shopkeepers and mechanics owed her their lives? Too many, thought Sam, for her to be lying here in the backwoods, unmarked, unmourned.

It was only as he walked towards the sleek black body of the impala that he realised he had forgotten to get the keys out of her pocket.

He smiled, his face aching with lack of use. Now, of course, they were buried with her, six feet down in the embracing earth. Then he chuckled quietly, and as he realised how far it was back to the city, he began to laugh joyfully and hugely, the sound alien but welcome in his dry throat, and he was bending over and wheezing.

God damn it, Jean, you win this one, he thought as he looked back towards the cross and grave. He should have known that it would take more than death to separate her and her baby.

He slapped the Impala on the bonnet and began the long walk South, chuckling dashing the last tears away with his raw knuckles,

Jean screamed at him not to go, howling his name and beating on the bonnet of the Chevy with incorporeal fists. 'Don't leave me here, don't go!' was her cry, but the rustling grass and dripping rain made more noise than her ghostly throat. Her brother, her best and only friend, tramped slowly over the brow of the hill and was gone. The trees mocked her loneliness with whispers, and she fell to her knees and wept.


	3. Who is this Lucy anyway?

Lucy Carlisle zipped up her neat black suitcase and swung it off the bed, then, taking a moment to refresh her lipstick in the mirror and gather her cosmetics, keys, wallet and phone into a handbag, strode into the corridor.

This was the first time he had taken female host, and he had to admit that he was enjoying it. The high heels had been a challenge, but the delightful swishy skirts and intriguing make-up more than made up for it. He smiled coquettishly at the young receptionist who blushed and dropped a bunch of room keys.

Lucy had tracked Sam Winchester to a small town in Wisconsin, downriver from the bridge where he had disposed of Jean. He had no time to waste, because the younger brother was doubtless already tracking him, too. He had been foolish to let him get such a headstart. To kill both Winchesters is daring; to kill only one, downright foolish.

The engine of his creamy fiat purred contentedly as he pulled out onto the road heading south. He smiled into the rearview mirror, admiring his wide blue eyes, full lips and smooth cheeks. He could get used to this.

As the road unspooled like a ribbon in front of him, he considered contacting Abaddon, who had dealt with these Winchesters before. Friend was a strong word for his relationship with the knight; try ally or just plain acquaintance. They had not yet killed each other, and that could only be a good thing.

A few hours later he pulled into a dilapidated gas station, and squeezed into the phone booth to make the call. Of course, it would have been more secure to use a blood call, but he had always disliked redundant murder of innocent humans.

Abaddon picked up on the third ring, and in a few tacit words they secured a meeting in an abandoned chemical plant not far from Madison. Lucy thought that the old soldier seemed pleased to hear him, and he hung up in reasonable spirits, confident that the younger Winchester would soon be following his sister.

He leaned back against the scratched and grimy wall of the booth, and considered his fingertips.

It occurred to him that he hadn't yet tested out the new host, and wasn't sure how much it could do before burning out on him. Finding out would be a wise preparation to make before going after Sam Winchester.


	4. Vivens Ex Corpore?

Sam Winchester marched along the old track like a man possessed, looking neither right nor left as the miles between him and the town light stretched out into the darkness.

The web had been surprisingly helpful on the subject of demon deals. The necessary items were sealed in a tin in his duffel bag. As the crushing realisation of his loneliness had struck him, he had realised that _of course_ he couldn't just walk away. His sister had been his greatest friend and closest ally. Without her he had no purpose, no fight, no income and nowhere to go. He would not hunt alone, and law school felt a so far in the past he laughed at himself for even thinking about it.

So he was going to get her back.

The ritual yarrow, the sanctified graveyard soil, the black cat bone and the last remaining photograph of baby Sam rattled hollowly in their tin. Apart from that, the night seemed large and very silent.

After a few miles he spotted the crossroads on the incline of a wooded hill. He quickened his pace, feeling exhilaration buzzing in his veins at the vain prospect of bringing Jean back.

He didn't want to say 'resurrect'. That made it seem too impossible.

As he reached the crossroads, he swung his bag off his shoulder, unstrapped the short shovel and started to turn over the dirt. Digging Jean back up again.

He dropped the tin into the hole, filled it in, then turned round and nearly jumped out of his skin. There was a boy standing just behind him, staring at him, face in shadow. He looked about six, and wore a British-style school uniform.

"Hello?" said Sam carefully. No reaction. "Can you hear me?"

"Sam Winchester, I hear you." The kid's voice was smooth and passive, terrifyingly emotionless.

"Are you –"

The boy cut off Sam's burgeoning question by stepping out of the shadows into the surgical moonlight, showing brilliant crimson eyes and an inhuman stare. Sam grinned, coldly reckless. It had worked.

"How could a lowly Crossroads Demon possibly help the mighty hunter Sam Winchester? Are you sure you aren't here to kill me?"

"I want to make a deal."

"Fascinating." The boy tilted his head to one side, and continued "For the life of Jean Winchester, your sister, back from the dead."

"Yes."

"That's – unfortunate."

"Meaning?"

"If it were anybody else I'd be more than happy to oblige. However, under these circumstances, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

"What?" breathed Sam, horrified.

"She has not yet fully left the land of the living."

"She's alive?" He started forward, heart rate jumping. "That's not possible…"

"Not possible," agreed the demon, not moving an inch. "She is, as you might say, _vivens ex corpore. _A ghost."

"A ghost…"

"Slow, aren't you?"

"How do I find her? How do I get her back?"

"To tell you that, Sam Winchester, would be beyond the obligations of my contract." There was a moment's pause.

"Fine. We're done." The hunter swung round and picked up the shovel, going to pack the duffel bag.

"Not so fast, Winchester." Sam turned back slowly, breathing heavily, but the demon just smiled sweetly at him. "You still owe me a deal".


	5. Not A Deal

The freezing wind shuffled the heaps of garbage and dead leaves around Lucy's heels.

The high perspex roof of the vast hall let in greenish moss-stained sunlight, which gave the whole room an odd underwater feeling. Empty chemical vats blocked his view and threw long blue shadows over the concrete floor.

The door gave an echoing bang as it swung open, and then footsteps advanced up the central aisle. He drew a plain military handgun from his pocket and held it loosely in front of him. He and Abaddon needed no false trust. He doubted that the old respect for him still stood.

"You look ravishing, Luce," came a smooth female voice. Lucy blinked in shock as a tall woman with lucious red hair and a cruel smile stepped into view, cradling what looked like an assault rifle.

"Abaddon?" called Lucy uncertainly.

"Strong male hosts are a bitch to come by these days." Abaddon's smile had the same feline quality that he remembered, and it was perfectly suited to her new face. "Can't say I'm not enjoying it, though." She unclipped the rifle and let it swing to rest passively at her side. Lucy pocketed his handgun as he replied.

"Seems so, yes. What's been happening in the big bad world?"

"Shit's gone down, my friend, and it's all the angels' fault."

"Same as usual then?"

Abaddon grinned. "What do you want, Luce? I'm assuming this is not a social call."

"I need anything you can tell me about Sam Winchester."

Abaddon's eyebrow twitched in surprise. "And why would we be getting mixed up with them again?"

"I hate to leave loose ends, you know that."

Abaddon didn't push the point. "What's happened to the other one?"

"Little Jean sleeps with the fishes, I'm afraid," explained Lucy in mock regret.

"Well." She sounded surprised."Congratulations. I wish I coud have been there."

"Needs must, my friend. You can join me in enjoying the end of her brother."

"What's in it for me?"

"Just a bit of fun, for old times' sake."

"You don't fool me, old man. You need something."

"Damn you, Abaddon," - the other demon smiled winningly as Lucy continued - "what do you want?"

"I want Sam Winchester's head, on a plate, and I want you to help send Crowley down for good."

"Crowley?"

"The fat beaurocrat who turned our Hell into his own private business concern."

Lucy nodded, "Oh, him. Sure, he's always annoyed me. So do we have a deal?"

"No. We have an agreement. We can break it anytime we want. I'm done with deals." Abaddon was clearly not to be argued with, so Lucy bit down his objections.

They stepped towards each other over the rustling leaves and shook hands impersonally.

They both knew the deal was as fragile as the frost creeping up the windows.


End file.
